


Lutes, thorns and happy endings

by TinyThoughts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Flirting, Geralt is Stubborn, Geralt is rather slow, Geraskier, Humor, Jaskier is very helpful, M/M, Sexy Times, Smut, and a touch sexy, and its fun, and whacking witchers with lutes, but he will get there, geralt is a tease, i think, im very funny, just a little pining, nature is calling, or start idk, they want the boys to stop, this is a story about thorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyThoughts/pseuds/TinyThoughts
Summary: Jaskier is a strong, independant bard and can take care of himself. So when our strong independant bard gets attacked by wolves, he whack'em with his lute.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just want things to be sexy but Im funny instead. Sometimes I want to be funny but it gets sexy instead.   
> Funny how things turns out!
> 
> I wrote this a few months back actually but didnt feel ready to show the world until now!   
> Hope you like it and let me know what you think!

The afternoon light is slowly fading into evening. The sky will soon be shifting in pink, blue and a strong orange.

This time it wasn’t a troll, nor a ghoul or even a cockatrice.

It turns out that a flock of wolves can wreck more havoc than Jaskier ever thought possible. He suspects it might actually be his fault, but it would take much, much more than a grumpy witcher to make him confess.

Possibly the mutilation of his beloved lute.  
Possibly not even then.

Turns out singing and playing might not only attract unwanted attention. It might also mask the sneak of said attention. Normally wolves would be scared off by such administrations, but Jaskier guessed that the fresh blood from the small deer Geralt just killed was enough to make the starving animals go for it.

It wasn’t that big of a fight. Geralt handled them easily enough, but one lunged for Jaskier and then it all went downhill.   
Literally.

When coming to his rescue, Geralt killed the wolf at the same time Jaskier had decided to swing his lute at his attacker, instead hitting Geralt straight in the face. The twang from the lute and their killed mate must finally have scared off the flock, for they ran.   
Or they might have gotten what they came for, and stolen the deer carcass, Jaskier noticed.

He also noticed a _boot_ sticking out from a nearby and very, very thorny bush.

Presumably that boot belongs to the witcher, for he is not to be seen where Jaskier saw him last.

Jaskier laughed.

Long and loud.   
His sides hurt, eyes tearing up, falling to his knees still laughing.

A loud string of swearing and the foulest words heard this side of Lyria came from the bush.

And Jaskier continued to laugh as he tried to stand up, giggling making his way towards it.   
This is the point where he understands why the witcher is not yet on his feet.

The bush is made out of the nastiest, smallest clusters of thorns. Nasty crooked hooks keeping Geralt in place. A very _angry,_ loudly swearing and entirely stuck Geralt.

And thus Jaskier has to laugh some more, before trying to untangle the angry man in the bush.

In the end they have to cut him loose, bringing half the bush with them.

With both feet on the ground and his arms free, Geralt punches Jaskier in the gut.   
Which made Jaskier pause his laughing.   
Which brings them back to the present.

~

They have managed to cut off the worst of it, Geralts armor protecting the biggest areas. His hair, neck and hands are not in very good shape though.

Jaskier watches a few steps away, wary of the _fist of rage_ , trying his absolute hardest to stifle the little laughs almost escaping him as he recalls Geralt's boots sticking up in that angle.

Geralt is still swearing, trying to undo the clasps to take the armor off.   
It all looks rather complicated.   
Jaskier is feeling helpful, not guilty, definitely not, and approaches him.

“Need a hand?”

“You stay away from me, bard.” Jaskier gives him a few seconds, amused eyeing Geralt's struggles.

“Are you going to sleep standing up tonight? Because That’s what's going to happen.”

The only reply are grumbled swears, and from Jaskiers experience that's all he is going to get.

He gets into Geralt's personal space, who goes rigid.

”Lift your arms.” He stares him down.   
Well, up.   
Well, he stares at him in a manner that he hopes makes him do what he’s told.

And to his infinite amazement, after a short angry staring contest, Geralt actually lifts his arms.

Jaskier can’t help but to smile triumphantly and begins the process of undressing the Witcher.

Wait, no.

That sounded temptingly dirty.

Jaskier sends a glance up at Geralt's face, hoping that mindreading never will be one of his skills.   
That would finally and truly be the death of him.   
And Jaskier is standing rather close.   
He can feel the witcher's breath between them.

It is rather unnerving, but _not_ in a frightening way. Depending on how you see his imagination of course.

Which this exact second is presenting him with a few _very_ compelling alternatives to when and where he would feel Geralt's breath on him.

It is unnerving because selfcontrol never was his strong suit.   
Either way, off with the thorn covered armour!

A few awkward and too close maneuvers later they place it on the ground a few feet away.

As it turns out, the shirt under his armour is mostly untouched.   
It is on the other hand firmly stuck to his skin around the sleeves and neck and will be a pain to get off.

Jaskier is still standing close, right in Geralt's personal space.   
Curiously enough Geralt has been silent during the entire thing.   
And he is still not backing away even though he got relative freedom now.

Jaskier peers up at him.   
”Want me to keep going?” He has a hand under his chin in a contemplating pose.   
His mind reels in all the options of _“keep going”_ offers, and gives himself a mental kick to keep it in check.   
“You did this.” Geralt grumbles.   
“I guess that is as close to a yes as I’ll ever get. I'm gonna borrow your scissors.”  
Geralt raises his eyebrows in disbelief.   
“You want to cut my shirt?”   
“No you great brute, I actually care about clothes. They are expensive and precious. Even your stinky tunic should be treated with the care it deserves. Now sit your ass down, unless you got thorns there too!” He says over his shoulder, walking over to Roach.

She was watching the entire thing safely from a lush spot of undergrowth behind the camp. She still smells slightly of the last monster they killed and then dragged back to whatever little town hired them.   
Roach glares at Jaskier as he approaches her saddle, which is interesting.   
She only likes him when he brings bribes. Roach is the most expressful horse he ever met.   
Geralt could learn a thing or two from her.

He bends over the saddlebags that leans against a tree close to her.   
“How are your hands?” Jaskier asks, and then an “Aha!” when he finds the scissors and a pair of tweezers, finally.

He turns around to look at Geralt inspecting his hands. Jaskier leaves Roach to maim the nature around her with her evil teeth and approach the now sitting Geralt.   
“Give me that.” Jaskier grabs one of Geralt's hands and brings it close to his face.   
“The thorns must really like you. Look how deep this one is.” Jaskier meets Geralt's eyes, and his breath does this weird little hitch.

Geralt isn’t doing anything really.   
He just sits there. _But_ he is watching Jaskier so intensely, as if trying to figure something out.   
“What?” Jaskier asks him. Geralt blinks, then just grunts and looks away.

Jaskier desperately wants to believe he is not imagining colour slightly rising on his cheeks.

“Eloquent as ever.” Jaskier mumbles. “I was thinking that if I start with hands you might actually be able to help out.” he says as he sits down next to the witcher.   
“But I'm guessing you're going to let me do all the work as usual.”

Jaskier never touched Geralt's hands like this before.   
His skin is rough and a little dry, angry red lines and a little blood from the thorns scratching him.

Jaskier twists it a little, finding the inside of the hand mostly unhurt. There is only one big thorn sticking out on the fleshy part of his index finger, and he sets his sight on it.   
Tongue sticking out, he works on the thorn.

He turns Geralt's hand over, trying not to act too much like he’s stroking his hand.

It’s not like he is working slow on purpose.   
It’s just that, how often do you get to touch and hold a witcher's hand??   
Without them arguing about it??

He can feel Geralt's burning stare. It’s doing interesting things to his insides.   
The first hand is free, and Jaskier doesn't give either of them a chance to think about it.

He grabs the other hand and inspect it just as closely.   
“You know, it’s nice to be the one rescuing you for once. You truly would be doomed without me.”   
“Without you I wouldn’t be full of thorns.”   
“Tsk. That’s the thanks I get? Is this how it feels to be a witcher? So much ungratefulness.” Geralt snorts.

And then Geralt's hands are free from thorns and they suddenly grasp Jaskiers wrists.

Shocked, Jaskier meets his eyes. Tries not to let it flicker down to the witchers wellshaped mouth.

_(This just happens to be another fantasy his mind gifted him with.)_

He tries to keep his expression smooth, but something must show anyway.   
Geralt lifts an eyebrow, then pries the scissors from Jaskiers grip.

“You’re right. I don’t give two shits about my tunic, and it’s really starting to annoy me. ”

Then he stands up and starts cutting it apart.

It saddens him to no end to see the demise of the garment, but it certainly have its perks.

As before mentioned, the undressing of a witcher is doing things to this dirtyminded bard.

Said bard is currently opening his mouth.   
And closing it, as nothing useful comes to mind.

Useful in _other_ scenarios, sure, but not this one.

“Cat got your tongue, bard?”

Geralt isn't truly asking Jaskier to share what's on his mind.   
Jaskier knows that’s not what he’s asking, and yet there is a slight temptation to tell him.   
That is one hell of a well defined chest Geralt has there.

“You know I could have saved it.” Jaskier says, finally breaking free from himself. “And thinking about it, you don’t even trust me to save you from it. Now that’s just hurtful.”

He can practically hear Geralt rolling his eyes, and Jaskier feels his theatrics flaring.   
He too stands up, motioning dramatically around him.

“Is there anything you _actually_ trust me with? Other than to sing glory to your name?”   
“I did trust you not to get eaten by wolves. Look where that left us.”

And damn him Jaskier looks.

Geralt looks bloody delicious.   
Again, not at all what Geralt meant, but who cares.

“Going to cut off your hair too? Or am I actually allowed to save that?”

Geralt pauses in his shirt-butchering, giving Jaskier a considering look.   
The tunic is now cut open, showing Geralt's scarred chest.

He must have pulled too hard or something because some blood trickles from where the thorns hold the tunic to his skin.

“Gods, just bloody give me that!” Jaskier steps close again, snatching the scissors back. T  
his is getting old.   
The fabric is already beyond saving now, so he cuts it to make the thorns accessible.

As soon as both wrists are free from fabric he pushes the tweezers in Geralt's hands.

“Make yourself useful, will you? And sit your ass back down or I might just give you a new haircut.”

Geralt sits down.   
The threat to the hairdo is real, and should be treated with utmost care.

The witcher starts removing the thorns from his wrist, as Jaskier moves behind him and assesses the situation.

The neck is not as bad off as he first thought, armour and hair doing its part.

As a consequence, the hair is of course a mess.

Jaskier sighs loudly, fall to his knees behind Geralt and lifts his hair to push the last of his tunic off his shoulders.

Not how and why he imagined doing it, but whatever works.

“Are you sure we can’t just cut it off? You seem to prefer that technique anyway.”   
“Don’t touch my hair.”   
“I will have to, if you want to keep it.”

It’s not uncommon for Jaskier to save Geralt's hair.   
If it’s not thorns it would be guts or gore.   
Intestines seem to be a favourite, and a true pain to wash out.

But ever the opportunist, he relishes in being one of the few chosen ones allowed to do it, blood and gore be damned.   
Jaskier works while humming, untangling the mess slowly.

Taking the chance to drag his hand over the scarred skin over Geralt's neck.   
He needs to be absolutely certain there are no thorns left.

That’s a good enough reason, isn’t it.   
It has absolutely nothing to do with finding the man ridiculously attractive.

That fluttering feeling is absolutely unrelated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh here the naked stuff comes!

Geralt will never admit this to anybody, ever, and if anybody finds out they will suffer a mysterious death.

But the truth is, Jaskiers hands feels fucking heavenly.

It always relaxes him when his nimble fingers work out tangles, or dirt, or gore, or whatever died on him this time.

This time however he is not so easily soothed.  
Fucking Jaskier first hitting him and then dares laugh at him.  
He has to fight himself about it though. Despite what his head is telling his muscles, he finds himself leaning into the touch on his shoulder.

It stings each time Jaskier removes a thorn, and it pisses him off all the more knowing it would be such a struggle to do on his own.

Not to mention the heat he feels coiled inside, not one thing to do with anger.

Because when Jaskier without hesitation stepped right into Geralt's personal space without batting an eye, looking up at him through dark lashes and just expect Geralt to be a good little witcher and do as he is told.

Geralt is a grown, independant witcher, thank you very much.

He does not need a bard to help him undress.

And when the exact wording registered in his brain, _help him get undressed_ , his brain did another thing.

It fucking said Yes please.

And that's a hard no.

That’s not how their relationship works.

And then Jaskier just fucking grabbed his hands.  
Putting it close to his face, so close he could feel the hot breath against his skin.

And his fuckig breath hitching.

Why would it do that?  
Holding Geralt's hand and gazing into his eyes?  
Because that’s also something his brain likes to work with.

His brain, angry at Jaskier but sending out crackling sensations of pleasure under his skin anyway.

The heat pooling somewhere considerably lower than where anger resides.

Jaskiers eyes on him when he had mutilated that poor tunic.  
Blue eyes traveling down his torso as if they were hands, as if he wanted to touch.

And now Jaskiers fingers were touching him, on his neck, in his hair, humming and sounding way too pleased with himself.

Geralt and his brain are still having that internal discussion when Jaskiers fingers drags over one of his scars.

He tenses, ever so slightly. Biting the inside of his cheek, not letting that conflicted groan escape him.  
It was probably an accident. Let’s not overthink it. Again.

One has to touch to remove thorns. No way around it.

Aaaand that felt like a caress.  
The scar on the left side on his neck, Jaskiers long fingers lingering. Slowly. Deliberately.

He sucks in a tight breath, and a warm, familiar scent drifts from Jaskier.  
He likes that smell too much. It does things to him.

That’s not a good idea.

“What are you doing?” Geralt manages to get out.

Jaskiers hand doesn’t pause for a second.

He continues its slow movement over the scar.  
And Geralt, damn him, enjoys it far more than he should.

“Just feeling for thorns I might have missed.”  
Both of Jaskiers hands now move from the side of his neck to the skin hidden by Geralt's long hair, then behind his ears, massaging the soft skin.

And Geralt is good at lying to himself. He really is.

That heat in his abdomen for example, that is just anger as a reaction to Jaskier never stopping his flirty ways.  
That is absolutely it.  
It’s definitely anger keeping him up at night thinking about blue eyes and clever fingers.

Jaskiers fingers brush against his ear, and he just can’t take it anymore.

He grabs Jaskiers wrists, twisting around where he sits and glares at the bard.

“Why do you keep touching me?” As per usual, his glares never work like they should on Jaskier. He just smirks at him, and Geralt can feel Jaskiers pulse through the thin skin on his wrist.

“You know why.” Jaskier leans in ever so slightly, smirk widening. Geralt swallows.  
“You decided to take a dive in a thornbush. And you needed me to sort you out.”

This fucking bard. Geralt squeezes his wrists, irritation flaring.  
“Jaskier.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, getting annoyed too.

“Fine. What the fuck do you want to hear? That I am physically unable to stop touching you? That I fantasize about hands, how they would feel?” He says mockingly.

Damn him an his constant fucking flirting.

”It’s not funny Jaskier!” He glares at the bard.

”No, its not. You are so slow sometimes it actually hurts.” Jaskier snaps back.

This…. What?  
“What is that supposed to mean?”  
Why is this man so confusing?

“Do you seriously not know what fucking fantazising about you mean?” Jaskier is still glaring.

Geralt can only stare, the heat in his abdomen raging, spreading, taking over.

The bard studies his face, and something must encourage his next words.

“...Because if you actually want to know, I will tell you. But I'm not sure you do, because you have yet to push me against any surface and ravish--”

That is when Geralt finally snaps.

Barely aware of himself, teeth baring, he push Jaskier to the ground.

The heat is everywhere and it is definitely not anger.

“Or push me down. I'm flexible.” Jaskier smirks up at him, fingers flexing in Geralt's grip, which tightens.

The evening sun hits Jaskiers hair perfectly, it hits Geralt's gut like a suckerpunch.  
The air leaves his lungs in a rush.  
With his next breath Jaskiers smell surrounds him. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Damnit.

He really wants Jaskier.

~~~~~~

The thrill of his own confession rattles in his bones.

Jaskier can’t believe he said that.

Well.

He has definitely said worse things.

And he can’t believe Geralt is above him like this, holding him down.

”Jaskier, if we do this… We are… friends. “

Jaskier blinks.

Damn this witcher.  
What a time to admit they are friends.

“This would.. change things.” And if that wasn't a sound for sore ears.  
It’s like Geralt actually has been listening in on his thoughts and fantasies.

He gets goosebumps, a flutter in his chest and a shiver down his spine.

“I have been flirting with you for years. How did I ever give you the impression that I don’t want it to change?” He murmurs, smiling up at his witcher.

That does it.

Geralt leans down and captures Jaskiers lips with his.

Jaskier has been waiting for it for so fucking long.

The heat from Geralt's bare chest radiating against his own still clothed one.

A soft moan steals from his insides, for once absolutely a sound he didn’t intend to make.

Geralt lick between his parted lips, and his brain short circuits.  
He licks back, just a little, and then catches that gorgeous lower lip between his teeth, worrying it.

An actual growl is how Geralt decides to respond.  
Lips moves down, mouthing, sucking at his neck, marking him with sharp teeth and when did Geralt turn into a fucking… vampire?  
Werewolf? A biteybiter, whatever, his brain doesn’t function right now.

He feels a wide smile form on his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” Jaskeir says a little breathily, pressing himself against Geralt best he can.  
Because somewhere deep inside, Jaskier still needs to know Geralt wants this.

“For you to shut up, mostly.” Geralt shifts and is now only using one hand to hold Jaskies arms.

Geralt caresses his cheek, chest, over his collarbones.

 _If,_ and if is important here, Geralt hadn’t decided to touch him like that in that exact moment, Jaskier would probably feel offended.

“Fuck you” He says anyway.  
“Working on it. Not sure that shuts you up though.”

He can feel the smirk against his skin, and isn’t that insightful of Geralt?  
Also, was that a joke? An actual joke?

Jaskier has to pull back a little and look at his face.  
“Did I actually break your head? Are you really Geralt?”

Instead of an answer, he gets a kiss. It’s soft this time, soft, hot and searching, almost tender.

Jaskiers toes curl in his boots, because... Tenderness was not something he thought he could ever get from this.

They kiss for what seems to be ages, Geralt's hand cupping his cheek.

Then that hand snakes down, down over his stomach, pulling at Jaskiers tunic.

That is what ultimately breaks the kiss, the need to feel skin against skin. Jaskier needs to feel Geralt naked against him like yesterday.

“Actually, I want you out of these bloody clothes.” Geralt says, and he pushes his hands aside when Jaskier makes an attempt to get out of them.  
“Not even trusting me to get naked?” It’s nice that Geralt wants him undressed, but also there is the murder of Geralts own shirt Jaskier just witnessed.  
And Jaskier loves his clothes.  
“If you want something done properly…” Is Geralt's murmured reply, unlacing and unbuttoning and pulling off breeches and tunic with swift efficiency.

The air against his skin is like a soft breath, a little cool but welcome.

“When the hell did you get funny?” Jaskier complaints.

With Geralt preoccupied with his own trousers, Jaskier takes the opportunity to drag his fingers down Geralt's chest.

Fingertips explore chesthair, nipples and scars on its travels.  
And finally there is nothing between them.

The witcher lowers himself over Jaskier again.

Their lips find each other again, Geralt leaning on his elbows places on both sides of Jaskiers head.

His hair is falling down, tickling Jaskiers face. The sensation of it makes him smile.  
Jaskier lets one hand go up around Geralt's chest to his back, the other one tracing downwards.

He has of course seen Geralt naked before.

But never naked and wanting.

And this want, just for him.

“Oh the songs I could sing about this.” Jaskir sighs wistfully, taking Geralt in hand and strokes firmly.

“Mh. Don’t you fucking dare, bard.” He growls against Jaskiers cheek.  
“Never knew you for a prude.” Jaskier smirks up at him, loving how a simple touch can transform a face.

Lips slightly apart, pupils blown wide, how he can read the small tells of pleasure in his eyes.

“Im not.” Geralt says, and push himself once into Jaskiers hand, grunting at the sensation, before straightening, sitting back on his haunches.

“You said something about my hands?” Geralt smirks down at him, sitting between Jaskiers thighs, unabashed looking his fill.

His burning eyes trail from his face, lingering on his chest, down and down, settling on Jaskiers cock, which starts leaking from a mere look.

Geralt then puts his hands on Jaskiers knees and push them up and apart, revealing everything.

Jaskier is not sure if he is dying from all the air leaving his lungs from want, or because at least four of his fantasies just came true.

Geralt's hands are hot to the touch and a bit rough, and every bit as Jaskier imagined them to be.

Geralt leans in to capture Jaskiers inner thigh between his teeth.  
It stings a little but a kiss to make it better, and Jaskiers blood sings. He is so hard he can barely stand it.

He bites his lip, anything to distract himself. He stares up at the sky, the colours shifting magnificently.

He senses a metaphor up there somewhere.

And then he senses fingers.

And a hot breath.

Geralt kiss his hipbone, nosing over his lower abdomen.  
His hand flat against the underside of Jaskiers thighs, tracing downwards, gripping to spread him further.

Hands still above his head, he moans wantonly. He grips at the grass around him, need to find purchase because Geralt's breath ghosts over his erection.

He wants to, needs to see, and raise himself to his elbows. Jaskiers blue meets Geralt's burning amber.

And then Geralt's perfect mouth engulf him,tasting him.

The wet heat is almost too much.

He pulls at the grass again, the soft straws getting pulled up with roots and all, the smell of fresh dirt hitting his nose as Geralt's head slowly bob up and down his length.

He could come like this.

Geralt, the bastard, pulls off and looks up at him, lips glistening.

And that is just entirely unfair.  
Softly, gently, a finger ghost between his cheeks, seeking out his entrance.  
Circling softly, but making no attempt at pushing.

“This where you imagined them?” Geralt smirks.

His skin feels hot, prickling, too tight.  
“More.” Jaskier meant it as a question, but it’s more a breathy statement.

Geralt’s smirk widens, that evil fuck, and he shakes his head.  
“No.”  
“No?! Why not?!”

Geralt lets his body drag against Jaskiers as he moves back up towards his face.  
The friction against his cock is heavenly.

He cups Geralt's face with both hands, falling back down and kissing him desperately.

This time, it’s Geralt moaning.

Jaskier grinds against the witcher's muscular body, and their cocks line up beautifully.

They groan at the touch.

“Because I want to take my sweet time with you.” Geralt whispers in his ear, Jaskiers hands now finding purchase in Geralt's hair.

He closes his eyes, a shudder going through him when the witcher thrust against him.

“I’ll open you up, take you apart, fill you up, I’ll make you sing.”  
He thrusts again. Jaskier whines and throws his legs around Geralt's hips.  
Geralt kisses his neck, sucking more bruises on that soft skin, marking him as his.

“Geralt, please” Jaskier begs him.

“Not out here, little lark.”

Jaskier wants to hit him with the lute all over again.

~~~~~~~~

There is a little stubble on his bards face.

He lets it tickle his own cheek as their rocking movement brings them together.  
His control is hanging on by a thread, and Jaskier moving enthusiastically beneath him is doing nothing to help that.

“But not out here, little lark.” He says against Jaskiers neck.

That little lark freeze, so Geralt pulls back to look at him.

Jaskier looks so pissed it’s almost funny.

He can feel the corners of his mouth pull against his will. Jaskier is not having it.

He uses his grip on Geralt's hair and his thighs around his narrow hips as leverage and flips them around.

Now straddling him, Jaskier smirks down at him.

He lets go of Geralt's hair and puts his hands on his chest instead, pushing up to a sitting position.

“Fine, you fucking tease.” He looks glorious above him, the sun makes him look golden, otherworldly.

It makes his heart stutter a little.

The hickeys on his neck stand out on his otherwise flawless skin.

Possessiveness churns in him, making Geralt grip at Jaskiers thighs, dragging his palms up and down.  
Jaskiers fingers curl in his chesthair in response, twisting it around and pulling.

“You are absolutely right. If you want something done…” Jaskier mutters, and ever the showman makes sure Geralt follows his every move closely.

As if Geralt could take his eyes off him.

He positions himself more comfortably, sitting himself on Geralt's stomach.

“...you have to do it yourself” he finishes.

And takes himself in hand, wrapping one finger at the time around his shaft.

From this angle Geralt can see _perfectly_.

How Jaskier pulls in a tight breath at his own first touch, letting a wet tongue peak out between his lips as he focuses on the sensation.

He can see Jaskiers long, clever fingers circle and squeeze, up to to the pearl of moisture at the tip, twisting his foreskin.  
Geralt's fingers dig into Jaskiers hips, that coiling tension making him squeeze a little too hard.

But he can’t make himself let go, and Jaskier lets his free hand hold onto it.  
Geralt pulls his knees up to support the bard, also allowing his own erection a touch of friction.

Jaskier smiles knowingly, inching backwards, catching Geralt's erection against his cheeks.

The pressure between his thighs and Jaskier is amazing, and he has to fight to keep his eyes open.  
And his mouth shut.  
What is the bard doing to him?

“Jaskier.” slips out, before the witcher can clench his jaw, trapping anything else trying to escape his brain.

There is a reason he doesn't talk much, after all.

“Yes, dear witcher?” Jaskier the smug bastard grinds back at him.  
Geralt squeeze Jaskiers thighs and grunt.  
The hand holding on to Geralt tugs, and he let himself be guided up.

Together they slowly wank Jaskier, eyes never leaving each other.  
It’s intense.  
Geralt rut up against him, he can’t take it anymore.

It’s not enough. He lets his legs fall back down, Jaskier whimpers a little when he lets go, but he has no mercy now.

He grips Jaskiers hips again, with both hands he manhandles him down to sit on his thighs instead.  
And damn everything trying to make him let go of those hips.

He pulls himself up to a sitting position so he can press a needy kiss on Jaskiers lips, yanking him closer again.

Jasker wastes no time in gripping them both, Geralt's hands occupied with caressing up and down his sides and down his arse.

They breathe each other's air, foreheads pressed together.  
Geralt can feel it building up, and he can’t control his fucking mouth anymore.

“Jaskier.” He pants. “Jaskier.”  
“Geralt.” His bard answers, “My Geralt.”

That does it.

He groans, pressing deep into Jaskiers tight fist, spilling all over them.  
Jaskier follows a few tugs later, letting his head fall down to Geralt's shoulder.

When he comes, for once he is silent. Geralt wishes he could see his face, but they have time.  
Not tonight though.

He falls to his back again, arms still around his bard pulling him down with him.  
Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt's neck and sighs dramatically.

“I did good.” Jaskier praises himself.  
He sounds so pleased with himself that Geralt can’t help but chuckle.  
“So how far to the closest inn?”  
“So eager.”

It feels nice to hold Jaskier so close.  
He can feel his fluttering heart settle into a more normal pace against his chest.

“I was promised some very promising activities that’s not out here, so yes. And I was a very good little bard just now saving you from that big bad thornbush.”  
The witcher lets a finger draw patterns over Jaskiers cooling skin.  
"That I wouldn’t be in the first place if it wasn’t for you.” Geralt mutters.  
“I should hit you with my lute more often.” Jaskier smiles into Geralt's neck, earning him a sharp swat on his butt.

“Ow! Geralt, rude!”  
“No, this is rude.” Jaskier yelps as Geralt shoves him down at the grass next to him.  
The witcher gets up to find his trousers.

“Someone let wolves steal our dinner, so now I have to go find us something else.”

Jaskier turns to lay on his back, no modesty whatsoever, displaying how Geralt wrecked him.

“Surely it was not I. I was heroic and stood my ground against terrifying wolves and wargs alike.” He winks up at Geralt, who heats up at the sight.  
_Mine mine mine_ roars through him.  
“Very heroic. So heroic in fact he will let me use his clothes while I hunt, as he so heroically saved me from mine.” Geralt smirks and fish up Jaskiers tunic.

“NO! Geralt! NO! Come back here! We are not even the same size!!”

**Author's Note:**

> Roach well and truly always have to witness their shit.  
> I would be grumpy too.
> 
> Come say hi at Tumblr!  
> @dapandapod


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